


Penultimate

by Inquartata (mackillian)



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackillian/pseuds/Inquartata
Summary: Saren and Matriarch Benezia before indoctrination.





	Penultimate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savbakk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savbakk/gifts).



The intensity of his flanged voice drew her attention first. It overpowered the crashes of packed containers hurled through the open doorway of the Batarian Embassy and into the opposite wall of the corridor. It overpowered the vicious, jumbled shouts in deep batarian voices from those who had done the packing and the throwing. Believing the Council was done with them, the batarians were leaving the Citadel in return, and they would noisily let everyone know about their dissatisfaction up until the hatch of their transport ship closed behind them.

The batarians were angry, and Benezia could not fault them for their anger.

There had been no attempts by the Council to negotiate a peace, truce, or treaty, no attempts to foster mutual understanding between the two factions. Instead, the Council had denied the batarian petition. In doing so, the Council had tacitly granted the humans permission to continue their aggressive expansion into the galaxy at large.

Benezia took advantage of a gap between batarian container throws and strode further down the corridor. Her swift movement earned a frown from Shiala, wordlessly pointing out that she could not perform her duty as Benezia’s bodyguard if Benezia insisted on putting herself in the path of oncoming containers without even so much as a warning. Benezia waved off her protest, silent though it was. Shiala was often too attentive, at times forgetting that Benezia was a commando herself. Becoming a matriarch did not negate one’s training, much as Shiala might frown.

Once safely beyond the obstacle, Benezia could plainly hear the words that were being spoken so intensely. 

She listened.

“Your denial of the batarian petition will cost lives, both batarian and human,” said the voice. “The Verge will destabilize further. Hostilities will do nothing but increase until they reach their breaking point. Then it will be war, one way or another.”

A question came from another flanged voice, one Benezia recognized—Councilor Sparatus. “You’re that certain?”

“As a Spectre, I’ve been there for a decade. With eyes and ears in every settlement, every colony, every station, I know the Verge better than any of you could ever hope know it. Death is what will come from your ignorant decision.”

“I find myself curious,” said the voice of Councilor Tevos, “as to why you, Saren Arterius, one who carries a reputation of calculated ruthlessness that approaches brutality, would advocate for a peace that would save lives. Human lives, specifically, given your undisguised dislike of the species.”

“I speak to the potential for lives lost for your sake, not mine. While those lives aren’t my priority, they _are_ yours.”

“What is your priority?” asked Councilor Valern, the recently installed salarian delegate.

“My priority is maintaining balance in the galaxy. Humanity’s actions, humanity’s expansion, can’t be allowed to continue unchecked. They haven’t earned their place. Your rejection of the batarian petition is a gift to the humans, given at the expense of a species that’s been an associate member of the Council for a millennium.”

“I’m sorry, Spectre. Despite your objections, our ruling will not be rescinded,” said Sparatus. “You’ll receive a message regarding your next assignment by the end of the day.”

An unmistakable dismissal, which Saren silently heeded.

Irritation enveloped Saren as he stalked from Sparatus’ office, and he nearly marched straight into Benezia. He pulled up just short, reflexes quick as a commando’s. “My apologies, Matriarch.”

Benezia indicated the closing door. “There is no need. I heard much of what was said, even over the din. You were quite impassioned.”

His pale mandibles flattened against his mouth, a turian expression of frustration. “They were convinced of nothing.”

“Once they have made a decision, the Council is not easily swayed, and that has been true for centuries.” She paused, curious about the reason for his vehemence in a surprising call for peace from a person so steeped in cold-blooded death. “Would you be open to discussing your arguments further? If you are amenable, of course.”

His posture did not change, an indication that he would reject her offer. Yet, as he had pulled back from running her over moments before, he pulled back from his rejection, his blue eyes softening enough to indicate that he was open to the exchange of ideas. “I’d like to, but I haven’t eaten since this morning. My points would be drowned out by my growling stomach.”

“I have no objection to a discussion held over a meal.” Benezia gestured vaguely toward the area outside the Embassies. “There is a place nearby that I am quite fond of, and they offer a sizable dextro menu.”

“Then lead the way, Matriarch.”

“Please,” she said as she signaled Shiala that they were to depart, “there is no need for such formality. Call me Benezia.” 

In one of the oddest starts to a first conversation she had ever had, they spoke of death. Saren’s constant companion was death, and he could not speak about a topic without its involvement. While death was an inevitability for all, so was life, and Benezia sought to turn the conversation toward the inclusion of life alongside death.

It was not an easy endeavor.

“Benezia,” he said, hands folded over the tablecloth, “I’ll be honest. I have two rules that I follow. One, never kill anyone without a reason. Two, you can always find a reason to kill someone.”

She contemplated the glass of asari honey mead at her fingertips. Ardat-Yakshi held a great potential for death within them, yet they were equally as capable of embracing a peaceful life. “A corollary: you can always find a reason to keep someone alive.”

He inclined his head, conceding her point. 

Benezia took a sip of her drink and then replaced it on the table. “Councilor Tevos mentioned your dislike of humanity. I must admit even I have heard of its extremity, assumed to originate from the loss of your brother in the Relay 314 Incident. As Councilor Tevos said, I would have assumed you would have preferred increasing the number of human deaths that destabilization within the Skyllian Verge would cause, and thus you would have no objection to the Council’s decision. And yet, you objected. Rather vehemently.”

“My dislike,” Saren said, _dislike_ sounding like it should have been _loathing_ , “of humanity has next to nothing to do with my brother and everything to do with merit. The humans are upstarts. They were granted an embassy while they still barely knew what the Citadel was.”

“You disagree with new species becoming associate members of the Council?”

“No, of course not. But they have to be worthy of it.” Saren’s hands clenched as his intensity resurged. “The volus earned their embassy only after they created the Unified Banking Act. And what had the humans done in their mere eight years? Transgressed Council law by attempting to reactivate a dormant relay, requiring a police action to stop them. Then they transgressed Council law _again_ by conducting illegal AI research.”

The server appeared with their meals, bringing Saren to a pause. Having remembered that Saren had not eaten in several hours, Benezia waited until his plate was mostly cleared and he set down his eating utensils before she asked, “The Systems Alliance was censured and heavily fined for their AI experimentation, was it not?”

“Yes, but…” He glanced toward one of the nearby footpaths, where a young quarian, likely on a Pilgrimage, argued with two turian C-Sec officers. “When the quarians allowed the geth to gain sentience through their modifications, they lost their embassy. The humans never earned their embassy in the first place, yet they kept theirs. I’m sure the quarians would much rather have paid hefty fines than be consigned to their current pitiful existence.”

Benezia’s gaze drifted to the quarian, not seeing the suit and the mask their mistakes had forced them into, but the people the entire galaxy had once been allowed to see. For anyone to see a the beauty of a quarian mind or body, the quarian risked death. All of their beauty, hidden away. A people cast adrift for one mistake. She returned to Saren. “Do you believe the quarians were unfairly penalized?”

“No.” He shook his head once, sharply. “The quarians earned their expulsion as much as they’d earned their associate membership. My belief is that new species shouldn’t be accepted as equals right away. They need to prove themselves, offer something that contributes to the greater good, as the other member species have before them.”

It was an astonishingly turian outlook on galactic affairs. In turian culture, an individual’s personal needs were always subordinate to the greater good of the group. Saren’s animosity toward humanity became eminently understandable—he believed the galaxy a meritocracy, like turian society was. If the galaxy was a larger version of the greater group, then the different species were its individual citizens. To a turian, to Saren specifically, the Council’s actions would appear to favor one individual over another, with the individual being favored not having merited it. To Saren, the batarians had put in their time as galactic citizens, thus they merited expansion. Meanwhile, the humans had put in no time, nor had they done anything of worth to merit expansion. Yet the Council had passed over the batarians in favor of the humans.

Benezia gave voice to her realization.

Saren’s eyes lit up. “You understand. I’d never expected someone who isn’t turian to understand.”

His countenance brightened with such fervency that Benezia wondered how few times Saren must have felt understood at all.

She wanted to understand him more. Perhaps she could make up some of the difference. Perhaps it would cause him to look for more reasons to let someone live rather than look for more reasons to kill them.

After their meal, he told her he’d like to talk with her again.

“I should like that,” said Benezia.

They met again. They conversed again. They spoke of life and death again. Sometimes, they spoke of the more mundane, nothing so dramatic. Benezia discovered that Saren was thoroughly intrigued by the unexplained cause of the disappearance of the protheans, which led to her having to explain the estrangement between herself and her prothean scholar daughter. 

“It is normal, I assure you. It is normal between asari mothers and their maiden daughters. It will pass.” When Saren still did not seem convinced, as if what she’d said was an entirely alien concept, Benezia asked, “Do turians not experience the same within their families?”

Saren was utterly baffled, his mandibles slack. “No.”

“I have not disowned her, if that is what you believe. She is my daughter and I am proud of her. Matters between us are merely… difficult, at the moment.” She reconsidered, given the number of years that had passed without a word spoken between herself and Liara. “Several moments.”

His laugh was a hushed hum that reverberated from his chest. “Several moments in long succession.” Then he quieted, taken by introspection until his eyes flicked upward to meet Benezia’s. “You should tell her.”

Benezia tilted her head to the side, her turn to be puzzled. “Tell her what?”

“That you’re proud of her. You’re a matriarch, yes, but even you may someday reach a point where there’s too little time and too much to say.”

She filed away Saren’s counsel and attended to the present. “You sound as if you speak from personal experience.”

“The last conversation I had with my brother was over a comm link. He was compromised and his position was about to be fired on from orbit. He would be destroyed along with what could’ve destroyed us all. I promised him that I would mourn him. And that I would avenge him.”

“Avenge him for what? I thought you had said you do not hate the humans for his death. Am I misremembering?”

“Not directly, no. My brother held a belief so strongly that he was driven to try to use something that corrupted and killed him. He believed that our people shouldn’t have to bow to the will of those who allowed others to advance without merit. And _that_ is what I strive against. Humanity must know their place. Everyone must know their place. And if they wish to rise to another, they must earn the advancement.”

She saw his struggle, then. Saren held a great love for his people as he’d held a great love for his brother. And so he grieved for his brother. And so he grieved for the perceived losses of his people as he sought recompense—with violence, if necessary. Which, to him, it was. Violence wasn’t a stranger to him, nor was it something to be abhorred. If one did not understand him, if one did not know his goals, then one would assume he reveled in death. He did not. It was nothing more than a tool to him, yet it was the one with which he was most familiar.

Benezia still wished to understand him better. 

She had never been attracted to a turian before. Too spiky, she’d told a friend centuries ago. But the mystery and potential of what she could learn, of what he could learn, of finding new ways to learn together, were temptation enough.

They added conversations of a new kind, ones that brought a different sort of pleasure. 

Her first glimpse of his mind validated her choice. Saren’s mind, though chased by shadows she could not discern beyond their presence, was keen. Driven, hopeful. Swathes of it remained open to learning and his appetite for knowledge was voracious. He valued intelligence beyond even military prowess. 

When she caught him admiring the blazing intelligence he perceived within her mind, she was proud. He was as intrigued by her as she was by him.

Some of her acolytes began to murmur doubts. Objections. He was her opposite, even more so than the bondmate she had left over a century ago. But he was not her. Saren was not intractable. Changing Saren’s methods, guiding him toward finding reasons to let people live rather than finding reasons for killing them, would save lives. Not only would the lives of many people he encountered in his work as a Spectre be saved, but his own life, as well. Both were worthy causes, and she cared a great deal for them. For him. 

When Benezia confronted the murmurs and named her reasons, Shiala agreed. Others agreed. Others did not, and Benezia did not hold their beliefs against them. They had not seen what she had.

From the very beginning, Saren had been open to conversations of reason and logic as much as he was open to conversations of emotion and passion. Benezia admired his receptiveness to change. She admired his capacity to hope and his ability to see that hope manifest. 

There was good in him. If there hadn’t been, his brilliant moments, his enthusiasm, would be draped in shadow. He hid nothing from her that he was capable of hiding, and the thin shadows she could not bring to light were no different from ones present in any other person’s mind.

They continued their conversations, both old and new.

Then Saren wanted to show her something almost as important to him as his people, but it would require a journey to the rim of the galaxy. The truth of his claim reflected in the intensity of his voice as he asked her to go with him.

The trip was a small sacrifice, a worthy sacrifice, to see something so important to him. Benezia agreed.

Then she ran a finger along his cheek in affection, and his mandibles flared in a smile.


End file.
